Bottled Feelings
Some moments I will never forget
I keep a collection of glassware in the recesses of my mind. The vessels vary in shape and size, but they’re all glass. I like its strength and its coolness beneath my fingertips.
I keep my feelings in them. Not all of them; just some special ones, the ones that I want to sip during anxious moments and lonely nights. When I permit myself these moments of reverie, I unscrew the lid with tenderness, allowing only the smallest amount of liquid to pass between my lips. No matter how little, it is always more than enough, and my whole body is set alight. I become a beacon of flame, levitating, lightning in my hands.
Each jar contains a time I escaped from death.
The Duel
Honour dictated that I could not allow his comments about my dearest Isabelle to go unpunished. He is a cur, unworthy of the humanity of his name being uttered. I despise him and his cretinous ways.
I know not what I would do without Isabelle. I never believed that a woman might be my “better half” until I met her. She has nurtured me, with the skill and care of the most gracious mother, with more patience than I knew could be contained in a single soul, with candour and splendour and wonder abound. I am a lowly man, merely trying to make his way through the world, eking out a living as a bureaucrat, a man of letters. Simply put, I am not a fighter. I am a humble man.
Knowing that a disadvantage in skill is near-impossible to overcome with blades, I chose pistols. In this discipline, God himself shows more proclivity for intervention, and I spent the entire night prostrating myself before him. I didn’t sleep a wink, instead lying awake, consumed by the terror that permeated my heart and the desperation of my prayers. No matter. His will be done.
My hands are shaking with such fervour that I fear I won’t even be able to pull the trigger. What a sad little life this will turn out to have been. At least I will have done the right thing by Isabelle, and perhaps this act of atonement will be enough to satisfy St Peter.
It is time. The blood in my ears is deafening. I worry I will soil myself and defile Isabelle’s honour even further. I resist the compulsion to vomit with every ounce of volition I can muster. The arbiter (or perhaps harbinger?) counts upwards, and my leaden feet find themselves complying.
I turn, and in the process, lose everything that I ever was, am, or will be. In that instant, I spontaneously renounce my personhood and become an instrument of God. God raises my hand to the height of my shoulder. God pulls the trigger, and after doing so, graciously returns control of my faculties to me. I hear the shots. I look at my chest, waiting for the eruption of crimson, for the cacophony of pain, for the sweet certainty that it’s finally over.
I hear a dull thud as my opponent crumples to the ground.
A guttural noise erupts from me, a wordless and primal prayer of thanks to God, a promise to forever devote myself to His ways.
The Ascent
Must go. Must climb. Upwards! Quickly!
I hear them howling from below, the infernal demons, Lucifer’s footsoldiers themselves, yipping, snapping at my heels, foul creatures, their repulsive odour somehow still distinct from the brimstone that otherwise overwhelms my nostrils. They have chased me through the labyrinth, in its never-ending dankness, cold and hard and stale, leaving me with no other option but to go up, up towards the light, drawn like a moth to the flame, needing the light as I need air to breathe.
Climb. Up. Now.
I scramble up the scree, hoping in vain that their cloven hooves will be ill-suited to it, but of course it is not so, and they continue to torment me from just below my feet. Now at least the slope tilts further upwards, becoming a wall proper, demanding far greater exertion on my part, as I yank myself skyward with my hands, my feet skimming the rock and often flailing impotently below me, the panic squeezing my chest tighter and tighter and tighter. The aggressive gradient plays into my favour though - I glance below to see the creatures standing at the foot of the face, snarling but seemingly perplexed. I have done it! I have escaped their vile clutches!
I allow myself a moment of respite and attempt to catch my breath, trying to ignore the screeching of my assailants. Finally, my ordeal is over. I can rest, and think, and remember what it is to feel peace and joy and love. I can swim in the rivers and touch the trees and breathe in the sweet scent of a loved one. I can go home.
Something from below catches my eye. The wretches have begun to clamber atop one another, like Govinda participating in some accursed Dahi Handi, and I their pot of curds.
It seems my trial is not yet over.
up up up up up up up UP UP UP UP UP UP UP UP UP UP UP
The Vengeance
The light between the trees is murky, and shadows flicker across the forest floor. No matter; I’ve stalked Him for weeks, and even if my eyes fail me, my nose won’t. His scent lingers betwixt the leaves, so my pursuit continues.
I ought to be tired, but remarkably, I don’t feel an iota of fatigue. It’s been a long hunt - indeed, the thought of this particular prey has consumed me for years. It’s fuelled not just my training, but every waking moment; ending His life is my singular goal. I am a weapon; honed, lethal. I am the avenger.
It gets cold at night, but my hatred warms me. He must know that I am on His tail, but He seems to be slowing regardless. Perhaps He is wounded, perhaps He is simply drained. I hope He is able to rally - it would be unsatisfying, after all this, if He were to go down without a fight. I have a fantasy of how His final moments will play out. I want to see the fire in His eyes, to see their spark, to feel like He retains some lust for life. In that moment, I want Him to witness me. I want to communicate to Him my boundless anger, my overwhelming grief. I want Him to feel my pain deep inside his heart, before I mercifully snuff Him out.
He killed my entire family. My cousins, my nieces and nephews, my aunts and uncles. Every single one he slew. They lay in a bloody mess at His feet, His only mercy in his swiftness. He didn’t even spare my parents. Our parents. He killed our entire family. And now I will kill him.
As day breaks, His rank odour fills my nostrils. He is near, as is His end.
I spot Him in the clearing.
Lightning sparks in my hands as I warp the energy around me, bending it to my will. My bloodlust is total. I am a font of pure, unbridled rage. Autumn descends on the forest as the greens metamorphose into reds. The world turns rubescent. Not that there is a world, any longer. I am distinct from it, set apart. I have stepped out of time, into some alternate plane, one which I have specially created for the purpose of wreaking my vengeance.
I see the black flames dance around Him. Good; He will fight.
And fight He does. We are a tangled blur of limbs, teeth, claws, knives, energy. He fights admirably, as He was pre-ordained to do, but of course He is no match for me. Not when I have devoted myself to retribution for so long. I feel His spirit wane. He is tiring. He is buying time to process His own inevitable demise.
He staggers and I pin Him. Our eyes lock. He sees my fury, and for an imperceptible moment, I feel like his eyes are gentle, filled with… acceptance? Serenity? …Kinship?
In that moment I plunge my hand deep inside his chest, and rip out his heart. His body lies broken beneath mine, His limbs shattered, His ribcage mere splinters.
But the look in His eyes remains.
The Extinguishing
I’m sitting comfortably, my hips and back delightfully supported by the cocoon of pillows which I’ve built in the armchair. In this chrysalis, my fettered consciousness will wriggle free of its chains, and I will taste boddhicitta.
I take a deep breath, soften my gaze, and then close my eyes altogether. Already, I feel a pleasant wave of serenity wash over me. I am allowed to rest for these moments. I have no agenda except to notice what feels good and explore that.
I conjure to mind a pleasant memory, one involving a friend who is often the subject of my mettā meditations, someone I feel a particularly uncomplicated kind of love towards. I feel warmth - not just emotionally, but physically too. My nerves tingle pleasantly, and I gently rest my awareness atop the cloud of pleasurable sensations that make up my conscious experience. I notice them vibrating in and out of existence. I relax a little - my bodymind feels safe, a little more duḥkha escaping with each exhalation.
I notice this relaxation, and am joyous at my ability to tame my own taṇhā. This noticing sends a delightful electricity from my coccyx, through each of my vertebrae in turn, and into the base of my skull. My kuṇḍalinī energy is awakening.
I pay close attention to this feeling, and identify blockages within my body, releasing them one at a time, like unclenching a hundred fists inside me. Soon the śakti courses through my entire being, and I feel a sense of euphoria, paradoxically one that is enabled by its own anicca. The cloud of sensations that my awareness rests atop is now one of pure bliss.
Except, of course, I’ve never meditated in my whole life, and I’ve never even heard of the jhānas.
The Call
The song lingers in the air the same way that the salt does. I feel like I can taste it in the same way. It seems to be filling my sinuses, cleansing them, like chewing fresh mint. The clarity it brings is unlike any I’ve felt before. It’s transcendent, divine, the ebb and flow of the melody so ambrosial that surely the choristers must be angels. I need no further persuasion, and I know what I must do.
I run to the helm and heave at the wheel, pointing us in the direction of the lullaby’s source. We are headed straight for the towering cliffs of Messina, but I am wholly unfazed by this - as I said, I understand clearly what is to be done. I take hold of one of the mooring lines and lash the wheel, fixing our course in place.
The next task was myself. Approaching the mizzenmast, I scoop up a lanyard, and, turning to the nearest hetairos, I command him to lash me to the mast with it. His stare is vacant. He blurts something out about heading for the rocks. I order him again, with venom in my voice this time. His blankness gives way to fear. He obeys my command.
As we follow the call, emotions wash over me. I am fulfilling my life’s purpose, giving myself over to fate. The Gods are smiling upon me, and I feel the warmth of their gaze. This is the way things have to be, and I experience great pleasure in ceasing to resist that.
Suddenly, Eurylochus appears from below decks and dashes up to me. Unsheathing his xiphos, he deftly slices through the lanyard binding me in place. As I feel freedom return, I am entranced by my own panic; the Erinyes will not be denied.
I draw my own xiphos, and beseech Eurylochus; “rebind me, brother”. He refuses. I raise my weapon to his neck.
“Rebind me, or I’ll rend your empty head from your pathetic shoulders”. This time, he obliges.